NATIOWAULYRICS 


fe'i;ii*iij.tl 


9MHMMDBB 


FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY    HIM   TO 


THE    LIBRARY   OF 


PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/nationallyricsOOwhit 


NATIONAL  L^K!ei3 


v: 


933 


liY 


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r'f 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

.With    Illustrations   by 

George  G.  White,  H.  Fenn,  and  Charles  A.  Barry. 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR    AND     FIELDS. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKXOR     AND     FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University   Press  :    Welch,   Bigelow,   &  Co. 
Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


♦ 

Page 

Stanzas     .  ' 7 

Clerical  Oppressors u 

The  Christian  Slave I] 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 15 

The  Farewell           .        .        , 18 

Lines  on  reading  the  Message  of  Governor  Ritner      .        .  21 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia             23 

The  Branded  Hand 27 

rsxAs      .           29 

To  Faneitl  Hall 33 

The  Pine-Tree 34 

Lines  scggssted  rt  a  Visit  to  Washington     ....  36 

Yorktown 40 

The  "Watchers      .                        4? 

Lines  written  on  the  Adoption  of  Pincknet's  Resolutions,  etc.  46 

The  Crisis 48 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 51 

The  Angels  of  Bcena  Vista 55 

Democracy 58 

Thy  "Will  be  done 61 

"Ein  feste  Bcrg  ist  Unser  Gott" 61 

astr.ea  at  the  capitol 6$ 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra 67 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862 69 

MlTHRIDATES    AT    CUI03 71 

The  Proclamation 72 

At  Port  Royal "4 

Ichabod 78 

Ocr  State 79 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times  — 1850 80 

A  Sabbath  Scene 82 

Rantocl 86 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie 89 

The  Rendition 90 

Lines  on  the  Passage  of  the  Personal  Liberty  Bill    .        .  91 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day        ..*...  93 

The  Eye  of  Election 94 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne 97 

Barbara  Frietchie 100 

Laus  Deo 103 


NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 
The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 
Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 
The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame  ; 
For  not  witli  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped;  but  still,  with  awe. 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw  ; 
"We  heard  the  aearing  .<teps  of  doom, 
And  Baw  the  Bhade  of  things  to  come. 

In  gri«-f  which  they  alone  can  feci 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And,  poisoning-  and  embittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her,  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  —  we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace  :  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day  ; 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain ; 
'T  is  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain  ! 

Not  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light, 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  0  Lord !  be  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  be  done ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 


3d  Mo.,  1865. 


NATIONAL    LYRICS 


■ 


STANZAS. 


OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 
Slaves  —  io  a  land  of  li^ht  and  law! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war  I 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood  — 
A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell  — 

By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well ! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there  — 

The  falling  lash  —  the  fetter's  clank! 
Slaves  —  slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air, 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank ! 

What,  ho! — our  countrymen  in  chains'! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains, 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh ! 
What!  mothers  from  their  children  riven! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold  ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold ! 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light  — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong, 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Eight  ? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom,  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 


STANZAS. 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ) 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eve, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  1 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  "  farthest  Ind"  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote  — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ  : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us !  " 

Just  God !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn  —  the  heathen's  mirth 

Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 
And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
2 


I0  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 

Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 
Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  gray-beard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 
Up  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing ! 

Oh !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth  — 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man  — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up  —  up  —  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  !  —  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain  —  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  : 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven ! 


CLERICAL    OPPRESSORS.  u 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 

UST  God  !  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 
On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 


J 


What !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks  —  and  rob  thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Sou,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friend- ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine  ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke  ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  0  Lord!  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And,  in  thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  thy  own  altars  pray  ' 


I2  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood  — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God  ! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh !  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease  —  and  Liberty,  and  Love, 
And  Truth,  and  Right,  throughout  the  earth  be  known 

As  in  their  home  above. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  SLAVE.  13 


THE   CHRISTIAN    SLAVE.     . 

CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  —  for  his  grace 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 


A 


My  God  !  can  such  things  be  3 
Hast  Thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one, 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips  —  o'ertask  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and  shame, 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years, 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thon  prudent  teacher  —  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  darjgerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command  —  Obey  ! 


I4  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ;  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile, 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first  and  best, 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh,  shame !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day  : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes  — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's  cell  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loathsome  hell, 

And  coffle's  weary  chain,  — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  long,  0  God,  how  long  ? 


STANZAS  FOB    THE   TIMES.  }- 


STAXZAS    FOR   THE   TIMES. 

IS  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 
The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  1 
Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ! 

Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  3 
Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ! 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  —  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel  — 

The  dungeon's  gloom  —  the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed,  — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ! 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought  ? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  swell  ! 

Shall  Honor  bleed  !  —  Shall  Truth  Miecumb  ? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 


1 6  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

No  —  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall  — 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound  — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered  wall  — 

By  Warren's  ghost  —  by  Langdon's  shade  — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet  — 

By  all  above  —  around  —  below  — 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer  —  NO  ! 

No  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may  —  as  freemen  can  ! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God  ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with  flame  1 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn, 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  ? 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 


17 


STANZAS  FOR    THE   TIMES. 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

Od  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong? 

That  all  his  lathers  taught  is  vain  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

It-  life  —  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn? 

False  —  foul  —  profane !     Go  —  teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

<  H  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell  ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise! 

Rail  on,  then,  "brethren  of  the  South"  — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  — 

No  seal  is  tm  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
Xo  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  Sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder — we  are  free  ! 


i8 


NATIONAL  LYRICS 


THE    FAREWELL 

OF   A   VIRGINIA    SLAVE   MOTHER   TO   ITER   DAUGHTERS   SOLD   INTO 
SOUTHERN    BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 


THE  FAREWELL.  19 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  foiling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 

Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  danghl 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  hack  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  hless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 

aint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again  — 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them  — 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughter-  ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play  — 


20  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  - 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  - 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth  — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth  — 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  - 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


LIXES.  21 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   READING   THE    MESSAGE   OF   GOVERNOR   RITNER,   OF 
PENNSYLVANIA,    1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token  !  —  one  lip  is  still  free  — 
One  spirit  untrammelled  —  unbending  one  knee  ! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and  firm, 
Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust, — 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has  broken  ! 
Thank  God,  that  one  man,  as  a  freeman  has  spoken! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been  blown  ! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has  gone  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South  —  of  the  charter  and  chain  — 
Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips  ! 
Where  "  chivalric  M  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the  poor ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters  are  —  Worship,  or  die  ! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it !     Wherever  the  blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to  God ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining ; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining ; 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 

Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 

In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind  ; 

There,  God  speed  it  onward  !  —  its  truth  will  be  felt  — 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened  —  the  iron  shall  melt  ! 


22  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of  Penh 
Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and  glen  — 
Will  the  land  where  a  Benezet's  spirit  went  forth 
To  the  peeled,  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of  Earth  — 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst  — 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of  their  kind, 
The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  combined  — 
Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a  chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  ? 

No,  Ritxer  !  —  her  "  Friends/'  at  thy  warning  shall  stand 
Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame  and  the  pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain  ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine  — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  tine  slave  :  — 
Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords  of  the  South 
One  brow  for  the  brand  —  for  the  padlock  one  mouth  3 
They  cater  to  tyrants  ?  —  They  rivet  the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro  again  1 

No,  never !  —  one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the  West, 
On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below ! 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA.  23 

The  voice  of  a  pboflb  —  uprisen  —  awake  — 
Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Freedom  at  >take, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  tiung  down  from  each  height, 
"  Our  Country  and  Liberty  !  —  God  for  the  Riom  I " 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   VIRGINIA. 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern 
way, 
Bears  greeting-  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay  :  — 
No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  | 
Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  tiles,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go  — 

Around  our  silent  arsenal>  untrodden  lies  the  snow; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  for, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threat.  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  -winds  which  melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here  — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank  — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank ; 
Through  storm  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts 

which  man 
The  n^hiiiLi-^niacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms  ; 
as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  BOOrn  the  darer'fl  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 


TA- 


XATIONAL LYRICS 


What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?     Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array  ! 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "Liberty  or  Death  ! " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  !     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory  —  false  to  the  faith  they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell  — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhound's  yell  — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves ! 

Thank  God !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now  ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow,  and  calm,  and 

cool, 
She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's 
free  air 

With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  de- 
spair ; 

Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon  your  plains 

The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA. 


25 


Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginian  name ; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame  ; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever,  of  your  sin,  and  shame,  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath 

been, 
Thrilled,   as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain 

men  : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 

Beneath  the  very  Bhadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 

How,   through    the    free   lips  of  the    son,   the  father's  warning 

spoke ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high,  — 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons 

rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics 

sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex  —  of  thousands  as  of  one  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington  — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages  ;  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round ;  — 

i  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset'fl  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God  save  Latimer  !  " 
3 


26  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray  — 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay  ! 
Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holyoke 
Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters  — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud  —  the  sound  of  many  waters  ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State!     No  slave  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !     In  calmness  we  have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn ; 
You  Ve  spurned  our  kindest  counsels  —  you  've  hunted  for  our 

lives  — 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and 

gyves! 

We  wage  no  war  —  we  lift  no  arm  —  we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin ; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  yc  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God-like  soul  of  man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity,  is  registered  in  Heaven  ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders  —  no  pirate  on  our  strand  ! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  —  no  slave  upon  our  land! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND.  27 

THE    BRANDED    HAND. 

1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman  !  with  thy  thoughtful 
brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day,  — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve,  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain  ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee?     Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest  work  thy  shame  ? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn  ! 

They  change  to  wrong,  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity  too  legible  for  doubt ! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  footsole  up  to 

crown, 
Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and  renown  ! 

Why.  that  brand  is  highest  honor !  —  than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon  set ; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  branded  hand  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  wars 
The  scars  of  Arab  lances,  and  of  Paynim  seimetars, 
The  pallor  of  the  prison  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span, 

0  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man  ! 

;flred  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave, 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave  ; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  tm 
Thou  for  the  true  Sbechinah,  the  present  home  of  God  ! 


28  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For,  while  the  jurist  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 
From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung, 
And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted  shrine, 
Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood 
for  wine,  — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour  knelt, 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt ; 
Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison-shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  Him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 
Thou  did'st  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  schoolmen 

know ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels  only  can, 
That  the  one,  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven,  is  Man  ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right  hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  Salvation  to  the  Slave  !  " 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  Northern  air,  — 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God  look  there  ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  —  like  the  Bruce's  heart  of 

yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before  ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan  line : 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches,  and  the  Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that 
hand  ! 


TEXAS. 


29 


TEXAS. 


VOICE    OF    NEW    ENGLAND. 


UP  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 


3o  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Like  a  lion  growling  low  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  — 

It  is  coming  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party  —  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time  — 

"With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both : 


TEXAS.  31 


"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 


■- 


• 


Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 

Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 


32  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Onward  with  your  fell  design ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise  ! 

We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand,  — 

Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  !  " 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL.  33 


TO    FANEUIL   HALL. 

1844. 

MEN  !  —  if  manhood  still  yc  claim, 
If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still :  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut  the  mill-gate  —  leave  the  stall  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by  — 
Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked  — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  father's  way  ;  — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land  — 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars  — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall : 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  parry  spun  ; 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

Afl  the  heart  of  one. 


34  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 
Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 

Freedom  asks  your  common  aid  — 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  — 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  1     Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

Let  us  unchain  theirs  ! 
Up  !  your  banner  leads  the  van, 

Blazoned  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


THE   PINE-TREE. 

1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted 
shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's  tattered  field, 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "  Thus  saith 

the  Lord  ! " 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  —  set  the  battle  in  array !  — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do  to-day. 


THE  PINE-TREE.  35 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs  —  cease  your  paltry  peddler  cries  — 
Shall  the  good   State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling  stocks 

may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  1  tarter  man  for  cotton  ?  —  That  your  gains  may  sum 

up  higher, 
Must  we  ki>s  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children  through  the 

tire  ? 
I>  the  dollar  only  real  ?  —  God  and  truth  and  right  a  dream  1 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood  kick  the 

beam  ? 

<  J  my  God  !  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest  of  Andros 

down  !  — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets  to  cry  : 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts  !  —  Set  your  feet  on  Mammon's 

lie! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic  —  spin  your  cotton's  latest  pound  — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor  —  keep  the  heart  o'  the 

Bay  State  sound  !  " 

Where  's  the  max  for  Massachusetts  ?  —  Where  's  the  voice  to 
speak  her  free  ?  — 

Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  mountains  to  the 
sea  ! 

B  ats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  !  —  Sits  she  dumb  in  her  de- 
spair ?  — 

Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?  —  Has  she  none  to  do  and 
dare  ? 

i  >  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted  shield, 

And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's  tattered  field  ! 


36  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


LINES, 


SUGGESTED   BY   A  VISIT   TO    THE   CITY   OF   WASHINGTON   IN  THE 

12th  month  of  1845. 


WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 
On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 
From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river ; 
Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same  quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs  which  from  its 
table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !     They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  : 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 
Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 
For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great  hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's  flowing 
Backward  on  the  sunset  air; 
And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  measures  sweet  and  rare  : 


LINES.  37 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances. 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fouls  with  >hy  advai 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which  God  and  Truth 
condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange; 
From    the    parlor    to    the   prison    must    the    scene   aud  witness 
change. 

Hark  !   the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow  ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 
On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God  !  —  Is  that  a  WOMAN 

( )n  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
Are  they  men  whose  eves  of  madness  from  that  sad  procession 
flash? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride  ? 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  BLAVB-ship  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on  Potomac's  tide! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Wind-  above  its  old  condition, 
Witli  a  reptile's  Blimy  crawl, 
Shall  the   pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave  in  anguish 
call  ! 


38  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the  hollow  show  ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping ; 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear  their  generous 
part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
"With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing . 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words  "  Be  Free  !  " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but  his  advent  is  to  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  reve1 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the  Slaves,  to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 
All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  :  — 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a  Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 


LIXES. 


39 


Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 
To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted  slowly  back  the  murk  of 
night !  — 


'©* 


Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 

Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 
While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an  echo  of  the  last !  — 

0  my  brothers  !  O  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear  ; 
W^ould  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to  the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below  — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 

We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow  for  blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 
Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 

From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 

Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 
r  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  burs- 
All  our  idle  feuds  in  du£ 

And  to  future  conflicts  carry 
Mutual  faith  and  common  ton 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is  most  just- 


4o  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 
Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 
With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?     Shall  we  cloud  their  blessed 
skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way  ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 
Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it  is  not  day ! 


YORKTOWN. 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 


YORK  TO  WX.  41 

October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines  ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O  Tiara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 
Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood, 
Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear  : 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here  ! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  ^id  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn,  — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  1 

O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  with  steady  footfall  near 

The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right  ! 
4 


42 


NAT  I  OX AL  LYRICS. 

Lo  !  threescore  years  have  passed  ;  and  where 
The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

O,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall  ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame,  — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where  's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war  ? 

Where  flows  its  stripe  ?     Where  burns  its  star  ? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 

Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 

Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak : 

Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks  ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


THE    WATCHERS. 


43 


THE   WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 


44  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long  ! n  —  I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace,  — 
"  Is  there  no  respite  ? —  no  release  ?  — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

"  0  Lord,  how  long  !  —  One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"  What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave  ? 
How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"  0  brother  !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 


THE    WATCHERS. 

"  But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  tight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

M  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  "Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ?  — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"  Nay/'  Peace  implored  :  "  yet  longer  wait ; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"  Too  late  !  "  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
"  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  Bweet  voice  fell. 

"  Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang ;  "  the  rod 
Most  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  ! " 


45 


46  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF  PINCKNEY'S  RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE 
HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND  THE  PASSAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S 
"BILL  FOR  EXCLUDING  PAPERS,  WRITTEN  OR  PRINTED,  TOUCH- 
ING THE  SUBJECT  OF  SLAVERY  FROM  THE  U.  S.  POST-OFFICE," 
IN   THE   SENATE   OF  THE   UNITED    STATES. 

MEN  of  the  North-land  !  where  's  the  manly  spirit 
Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone  ? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 

Their  names  alone  1 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenched  within  us, 

Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low, 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 

To  silence  now  ! 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 

Silence  is  crime ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Rights  all  our  own  ?     In  madness  shall  we  barter, 
For  treacherous  peace,  the  freedom  Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  human  fetters, 

Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights  deny, 
And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skilled  abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  9 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 

Both  man  and  God  ? 


LINES. 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way, 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 

Day  after  day  ? 

O  no ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  mountains  — 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie  — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges  —  from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff — 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought  farmer  — 

From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel  — 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel  — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 

A  People's  voice 

Startling  and  stern  !  the  Northern  winds  shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

O,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bondman  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth !     The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thank>i:ivin^  raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 


47 


48  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

O,  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wronged  captive,  bleeding,  crushed,  and  lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 

The  fire  awake  ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heavenly  Father, 

Maintain  the  Right  ! 


THE   CRISIS. 

WRITTEN  ON  LEARNING  THE  TERMS  OF  THE  TREATY  WrITH  MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's  drouth  and 
sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's  strand ; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and  free, 
Flowing  down  from  Neuva  Leon  to  California's  sea ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa  Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  !     Let  thy  simple  children  weep  ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos  keep ; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines ; 
For  lo  !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's  plain. 


THE    CRISIS. 


49 


Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound,  the  winds  bring 

down, 
Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Neveda's  crown  ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel  slack, 
And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his  back ; 
By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 
On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers !  that  land  of  lake  and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain  ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in  softest  geeen  ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars  ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds  that  none  have 

tamed, 
Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon  never 

named ; 
Deep  mines,   dark   mountain    crucibles,  where  Nature's  chemic 

powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will :  —  all  these  ye  say  are  ours  ! 

Forever  ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden  lies ; 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the  skies. 
Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom,  turn  the  poised  and  trembling 

scale  ? 
Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  prevail  1 
Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry  splendor  waves, 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of  slaves  1 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East,  of  which  the  prophets  told, 
And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age  of  Gold  : 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand  up  as  men  ; 
The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn  ! 


5o 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 
The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of  woe  ? 
To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  old  world's  cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the  tired  lap  of 

Time? 
To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 
And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven  !     Is  this  our  mission  ?     End  in  this  the  prayers 

and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger,  better  years  ? 
Still,  as  the  old  world  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer  darkness  borne  1 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in  the  air  ? 
"Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin  ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin  ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing  down  ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and  shame ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the  prophets  came ; 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
0  my  people  !  O  my  brothers  !  let  us  choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way ; 
To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 
To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales  with  grain ; 
And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train  : 
The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 
And  mountain  unto  mountain  call :  Praise  God,  for  we  are 
free  ! 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


RANDOLPH   OF   ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  fbrgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  Autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  West, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  —  in  himself 
All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 

The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 
The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting ; 


52 


NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 
Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 

The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 
Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE.  53 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  tire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  :  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Laid  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother  man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 
-     His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 


54 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 
When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 

He  traced  with  dying  hand  "  Eemorse  !  " 
And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living ! 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA. 


55 


THE   ANGELS    OF   BUENA  VISTA. 


SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  Losing  !  who  is  winning'?  are  they  far  or  come  they  near  ■ 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls  !  " 


56  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  —  "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !    Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more  : 
"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain 
course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !    "  Ah !  the  smoke  has  rolled  away ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !   that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !    there  the  troop  of  Minon 

wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat  and  now  advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance  ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ;  horse  and  foot  together  fall ; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the  North- 
ern ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on  : 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and  who  has  won  ? 
"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all !  " 

"  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting :    Blessed  Mother,  save  my 

brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive 

to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes  ! " 

"  0  my  heart's  love  !  0  my  dear  one !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my 

knee ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?     Canst  thou  hear  me  1 

canst  thou  see  ? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle !  O  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  mercy  !  mercy  !  all  is  o'er  !  " 


THE  AXGELS    OF  BUEXA    VISTA. 


57 


Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximcna  ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  liis  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast; 
Let  his  dirge  be  Bang  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away  ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head; 
With  a  Bad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead  ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath 

of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  «low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly 

smiled  : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied  ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother  ! "  murmured  he,  and 

died! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  the  North !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !     "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  be- 
hind ; 
Ah  !   they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive  ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  O,  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  0  Night,  among  thv  mountains  !  let  the  cool,  gray  shadows 

fall  f 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all ! 
Through  the  thiekening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 
5 


58  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint  and 

lacking  food ; 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern 

tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father  !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours  ; 

Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden 

flowers  ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air ! 


DEMOCRACY. 


"  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even 
so  to  them."  —  Matthew  vii.  12. 


BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 
The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred,  —  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  naughty  brows  of  Pride. 


DEMOCRACY. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 


59 


Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For,  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 


The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine  — 

The  pitying  heart  —  the  helping  arm  — 
The  .prompt  self-sacrifice  —  are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see'st  a  Man 
In  prince  or  peasant  —  slave  or  lord  — 

Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 


Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set,  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 


60  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high,  — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering  :  — 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Day,  1843. 


THY    WILL  BE  DONE.  6 1 


THY  WILL   BE   DONE. 

WE  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait,  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 


62  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


"EIN   FESTE   BURG   1ST   UNSER  GOTT." 

(LUTHER'S  HYMN.) 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 
The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 


»EIN  FESTE  BURG  1ST   UXSER   GOTT."  63 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel ! 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  % 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  1 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  1  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
O  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
"  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  % 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  1 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  lie  its  part  has  taken ! 
Though  wild  and  loud 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 


64  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  )Tet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing  ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor ! 


ASTR^A  AT   THE   CAPITOL.  65 


ASTR^EA  AT   THE    CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION   OF   SLAVERY   IN   THE   DISTRICT   OF   COLUMBIA,    1862. 

'I  T  THEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 

\  \     Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 
The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 

And,  smothering  down  the  wrath  and  shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 

Stood  silent  —  where  to  speak  was  death. 


Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :   Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 


66  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power ; 

And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie,  — 
Somehow,  sometime,  the  end  would  be ; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !     In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 
The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  !  — 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 

The  song  that  Bethlehem's  shepherds  knew ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped ;  —  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing  !  —  yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun,  — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun,  — 


THE  PASS   OF   THE  SIERRA.  67 

Rejoice  with  me  !     The  chastening  rod 

Blossoms  with  love  ;   the  furnace  heat 

Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 
Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice  !     Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope  !     The  day  and  night 

Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 

Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 
Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 


THE    PASS  OF  THE    SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow ; 
The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 

The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 
Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 

Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain, 

Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  Bight  waned  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 
A  gleam  of  sudden  tire, 


68 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 
And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"  Up,  men  !  "  he  cried,  "  yon  rocky  cone, 
To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 

And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 
On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  !  " 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 

They  trod  th'  eternal  snow, 
And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 

The  promised  land  below. 


69 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN   OF  1862. 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo  !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 

Rise  up,  Fremont  !  and  go  before  ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van ! 

Sth  mo.,  1856. 


THE    BATTLE   AUTUMN    OF    1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 


7o 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  1 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  th'  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 


MITIIRIDATES  AT   CHIOS. 

O,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in  ! 


71 


MITHRIDATES   AT   CHIOS. 

KNOW'ST  thou,  O  slave-eursed  land ! 
How,  wheu  the  Chian's  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  1 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far ; 

But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 
The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was  answered,  when  the  JEgean  wave 

The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of  war. 

<<  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's  decree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from  the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine  ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall  be, 
In  Colchian  mines  by  Phasis  rolling  dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves  : 
The  priestess  rent  her  hair  and  cried, 
"  Woe  !  woe  !     The  gods  are  sleepless-eyed  !  " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves  of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 


72  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

"  The  gods  at  last  pay  well/' 
So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought " ; 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 

And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old, 

Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet  with  their  blood  and  tears. 


THE   PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  these  words  : 
"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free  !  " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God  pardon  him !  " 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 

So  went  he  forth  :  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame; 

And.  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 

O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of  wrong ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages  ;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  return  again. 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 
And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slavery  cursed. 


73 


b4*»~' 


74 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


AT   PORT   ROYAL. 


THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  san^ 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  75 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  musie  and  of  son^  : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 

And  poor  home-comforts  please ; 
The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 

With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 

The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 

Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 
Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 

That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG   OF  THE   NEGRO   BOATMEN. 


O,  praise  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  Bet  de  people  free ; 
An'  massa  link  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 


76  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red-Sea  waves 

He  j  us'  as  'trong  as  den ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  brefF  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  u«  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free ; 
De  Norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord : 


AT  PORT  ROYAL,  77 

An*  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And,  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still  : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


78  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 


ICHABOD ! 

SO  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 
Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

O,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age 

Falls  back  in  night ! 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 


OUR   STATE.  79 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


OUR   STATE. 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak  and  hard,  our  little  State 

int  of  soil,  of  limits  strait  ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies,  « 

The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  commonwealth 

Ate  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 


80  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 

While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school ! 


STANZAS   FOR  THE   TIMES. 

1850. 

THE  evil  days  have  come,  —  the  poor 
Are  made  a  prey ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 
The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime  ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain : 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 
Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow  ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  !  —  yet  we  boast 

Our  blood  and  name  ; 
Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's  coast 

Cries  out  for  shame  ! 


STAXZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES.  8l 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree  ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 
Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice  :   "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice  :   "  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  uive  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  more 

Whom  God  hath  freed." 

Dear  Lord  !  between  that  law  and  thee 

No  choice  remains  ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  reward.-,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word  ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O,  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience,  thou 

So  calm  and  strung  ! 
Lend  strength  lo  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  Bleep]  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


82 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


A   SABBATH    SCENE. 


SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 
Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 


A  SABBATH  SCENE.  83 

When  down  the  summer  shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
"With  dusky  brow  aud  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the  trees, 

She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  ; 
0,  pitying  Christ !  a  refuge  give 

That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling  ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 

Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 
While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 

A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing  ;  — 
Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead  ? 

Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 

The  hunter  and  the  flying ; 
Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and  day  ?  " 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench  's  a  slave, 

And  I  'm  her  lord  and  master  ! 

"  I  've  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 

And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me  1  " 
Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 

u  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 

To  own  and  work  and  whip  her; 
Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglot 

Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her ! " 


84  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 
Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 
The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  wThile  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"  Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day, 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations : 

■«  And  this  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender ; 

As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  !  " 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 
Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder ; 

I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 
God  answering  with  his  thunder  ! 

All  still !  —  the  very  altar's  cloth 
Efad  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to  face, 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking  ! 

My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"  The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching  ? 

Then  down  with  pulpit,  down  with  priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching ! 


SABBATH  SCENE.  85 


"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

To  give  it  to  the  Devil ! 

"  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man  's  a  liar  !  " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry  "  Infidel !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up,  —  where  now  were  church, 
Slave,  master,  priest  and  people  ? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted. 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature ! 


86  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on ; 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  Break  every  yoke, 
Undo  the  heavy  burden  ! 


RANTOUL. 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped ; 
We  came  next  morn  :  that  tongue  of  fire 
Said  only,  "  He  who  spake  is  dead  !  " 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome ! 

Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 

With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of  home ! 

Dead  !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour ! 

Dead  !  while  we  watched  his  manhood's  prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower ! 

Dead !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew  breath ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  surprise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world,  — 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 


RAXTOUL.  87 

Through  him  wc  hoped  to  speak  the  word 

Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land  ; 
And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 

Which  dropped  from  Hampden's  dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 

And  walked  with  Pym  and  Vane  apart ; 
And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  heat 

Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's  heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 

Where  England's  best  and  wisest  trod  : 
And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that  welled 

Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self-poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway     • 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still  m 

He  pressed  where  others  paused  or  failed ; 

The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant  will,  — 
The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled ! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 

And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law ; 
Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 

The  choral  harmonies  whereby 
The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  rejoice, 

The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky ! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 

To  poor  ambitions;  yet,  through  all, 
We  -aw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 

And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the  thrall. 


88  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 

And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 

And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 
To  make  the  Democratic  name 

Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas, 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 

And  shape  themselves  to  words  like  these :  — 

"  Why,  murmuring,  mourn  that  he,  whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  ! 

"  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 

No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain ; 
The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fell 

No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 

That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er ; 
Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 

It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once  more. 

"  Men  of  the  North !  your  weak  regret 

Is  wasted  here ;  arise  and  pay 
To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 

By  following  where  he  led  the  way ! " 


BROWN    OF    0  f/E. 


89 


BROWN    OF   OSSAWATOMIE. 


JOHN"  BROTVX  of  OsSAWATQUU  spake  on  his  dying  day: 
"I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in  Slawry's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have  Striven  to  free, 
With  her  children  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a  praver  for  me  !  " 

7 


90  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to  die ; 

And  lo !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed  nigh. 

Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old  harsh  face  grew 

mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the  negro's 

child ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the  loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the  good  intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's  aureole  bent ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  human  blood ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which  underlies ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Never  more  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle  hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's  spear. 
But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  passes  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice  more  than  mail  \ 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not  harm  the  dove ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to  Love ! 


THE   RENDITION. 

I    HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 
My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  handcuffed  down  that  sworded  street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 


LINES  91 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 
And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 

A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 

All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 

Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 
And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 

And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 

Fell  sudden  darkness,  like  the  fall 
Of  midnight  upon  noon ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 

Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness  tr^d, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  0  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 

Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 

Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 
And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

"  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 

Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said ; 

Ah,  me !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead ; 
I  stood  upon  her  grave ! 

6th  mo.,  1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO  PROTECT  THE  RIGHTS  AND  LIB- 
ERTIES OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  STATE  AGAINST  THE  FUGITIVE 
SLAVE  ACT. 


I 


SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 
My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 


92  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wine:, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring  ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung,  — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 

His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great, 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last ; 

"When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no  more, 
And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

6th  mo.,  1855. 


THE  POOR    VOTER   OX  ELECTION  DAY.  93 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY. 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 
The  highest  not  more  high ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 
The  nameless  and  the  known ; 


94  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 
The  ballot-box  my  throne ! 

Who  serves  to-dfay  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there  's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man  's  a  man  to-day  ! 


THE   EVE   OF   ELECTION. 


F' 


ROM  gold  to  gray 
Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 
But  tenderly 
Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  Hunter's  moon. 


THE  EVE   OF  ELECTION. 


95 


In  its  pale  fire 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  Mis 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west  wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs ; 

And  princes  meet 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon ! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear ! 


96  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float  ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom,  is  the  freeman's  vote ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  : 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
O  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms,  — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 


LE  MARA  IS  DU  CYGNE. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims, 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 


97 


LE    MARAIS    DU    CYGNE. 

ABLUSH  as  of  roses 
Where  rose  never  grew ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 
Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  rl y  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 


98  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

The  foul  human  vultures 
Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 

The  wolves  of  the  Border 
Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn,  — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Eight  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May-  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 


LE  MARA1S  DU  CYGNE. 


99 


Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

- 
On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 
Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 
.  The  march  of  the  day. 


ioo  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple-  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall, 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 


BARB  All  A   FRILTOIIE. 


IOI 


Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  rijrht 
He  glanced;   the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast 


It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  Bash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


102  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  ! "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 


LA  US  DEO. 


LAUS    DEO. 

ON   HEARING   THE    BELLS    RING   FOR    THE   CONSTITUTIONAL  AMEND- 
MENT  ABOLISHING    SLAVERY    IN   THE    UNITED    STATES. 

IT  is  done ! 
Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 
How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel, 
How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  O  bells ! 

Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 

Ring  for  every  listening  ear 
Of  Eternity  and  Time ! 

Let  us  kneel : 

God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal,  • 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 

That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 
That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 
In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 

Lift  the  old  exulting  song, 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea : 

He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 

Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  ; 
He  has  triumphed  gloriously  ! 


104  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Did  we  dare, 
In  our  agony  of  prayer, 

Ask  for  more  than  he  has  done  ? 
When  was  ever  his  right  hand 
Over  any  time  or  land 

Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun ! 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth,  and  song,  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise. 

Blotted  out ! 
All  within  and  all  about 

Shall  a  fresher  life  begin ; 
Freer  breathe  the  universe 
As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 

On  the  dead  and  buried  sin. 

It  is  done ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth, 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth ! 

Bing  and  swing 
Bells  of  joy  !  on  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad ; 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains, 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 


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